forced his way to the edge of the dock and was peering up at the
passenger-lined rail.

The boat had now begun to move slowly out of its slip, backing into the
river. Ropes had been cast off, and an ever widening strip of water
appeared between the vessel and the shore. It was now that the man on
the dock sighted the girl. She gesticulated at him. He gesticulated at
her. She appeared helpless and baffled, but he showed himself a person
of resource of the stuff of which great generals are made. Foch is just
like that, a bird at changing pre-conceived plans to suit the exigencies
of the moment.

The man on the dock took from his pocket a pleasantly rotund wad of
currency bills. He produced a handkerchief, swiftly tied up the bills
in it, backed to give himself room, and then, with all the strength of
his arm, he hurled the bills in the direction of the deck. The action
was greeted by cheers from a warm-hearted populace. Your New York crowd
loves a liberal provider.

One says that the man hurled the bills in the direction of the deck,
and that was exactly what he did. But the years had robbed his
pitching-arm of the limber strength which, forty summers back, had made
him the terror of opposing boys' baseball teams. He still retained a
fair control but he lacked steam. The handkerchief with its precious
contents shot in a graceful arc towards the deck, fell short by a good
six feet and dropped into the water, where it unfolded like a lily,
sending twenty-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, five-dollar bills, and
an assortment of ones floating over the wavelets. The cheers of the
citizenry changed to cries of horror. The girl uttered a plaintive
shriek. The boat moved on.